Tram 16 and an inconvenient one night stand.
(not a love story)
“I just wish my life wasn’t so predictable. I’m stuck. I’m waiting for something to happen, but I don’t even know what. Something, to give me a sign. Someplace, to make me excited. Someone, to sweep me off my feet. To feel alive again, somehow. Anyhow...”
I take a sip of red wine. Headache wine, I can already tell. The air in the cafe is thick and heavy. It is dark inside, old, merely lit by candles. The tables smell of beer and loneliness. I light a cigarette, inhale deeply, let the smoke float inside me for a few seconds and slowly breathe out, adding unnecessary fog into the space. I don’t usually smoke. The toxins in the cigarette are making me slightly high. Thick, red, smoky sedation. I swear I’ll be able to swim through this cafe any moment now.
“Anything”, I say. “Anything new. To break the cycle. To open me up.”
“It’s getting late”, she says. “I have to go and you’re gonna miss your tram home”.
“It’s getting late”, she says. “I have to go and you’re gonna miss your tram home”.
We pay and get up. My head spins and gravity is stronger than ever. Frosty air licks my face as I open the door, snowflakes urging me to sober up. I shiver under the unforgiving spotlight of a tram stop.
“Hey”, you say. “Cold, huh.”
You have messy blond hair, stubbles, and you’re wearing a denim jacket that cannot possibly provide any warmth to your skinny frame.
“Yeah, cold”, I say and look down. Your Allstars have holes in them.
“Wanna get a drink?” you ask me.
“I was just on my way home”, I answer.
“That’s not what I asked”.
I look at you. Behind you I see tram 16 approaching. It’s midnight. It’s freezing. Everything is always the same and I hate it. This is the last tram home.
“Alright.”
“Hey”, you say. “Cold, huh.”
You have messy blond hair, stubbles, and you’re wearing a denim jacket that cannot possibly provide any warmth to your skinny frame.
“Yeah, cold”, I say and look down. Your Allstars have holes in them.
“Wanna get a drink?” you ask me.
“I was just on my way home”, I answer.
“That’s not what I asked”.
I look at you. Behind you I see tram 16 approaching. It’s midnight. It’s freezing. Everything is always the same and I hate it. This is the last tram home.
“Alright.”
We return to the cafe I had left only fifteen minutes ago. The bartender shoots me a puzzled look while you order two beers, or maybe I’m imagining it. I usually don’t smoke and I usually don’t drink beer, but somehow my hands keep lighting new cigarettes and my fingers keep leaving marks in the dew on the cold beer glasses.
I need you to blow me away, I hope you realize this. I need you to be amazing. I need to need you. I imagine you are an artist of some sort. A carefree world traveller. Someone who makes a living doing what he loves. Who wakes up late and drinks coffee.
“Save me”, I beg you without making a sound.
Your thin lips move. They tell me you are a business student. You work for your dad’s company. You don’t have time to travel, anyway why would you when you live in a city like Amsterdam. Your lips form themselves into a smile and I know that you will never be able to make me feel anything.
“Let’s go” you say and I say “okay, where do you live” and you don’t live far from here so we walk and you take my hand and I let you because I can’t feel it anyway.
You have a typical boy apartment. You pour me a vodka while out of your mouth pour streams of drunken philosophy. I could leave, get a taxi, but I don’t. You place yourself next to me on the couch. Your hands seem to have acquired a life of their own. Pushy, you are. You rub my thigh, pull my shoulders towards you. I let it happen; I’m somewhere else, somewhere far away from you, from myself. You press your lips on mine, too hard, like a teenager overwhelmed by their own desire. The muscles in my face contract as I wonder if I can still pretend you’re someone else.
I need you to blow me away, I hope you realize this. I need you to be amazing. I need to need you. I imagine you are an artist of some sort. A carefree world traveller. Someone who makes a living doing what he loves. Who wakes up late and drinks coffee.
“Save me”, I beg you without making a sound.
Your thin lips move. They tell me you are a business student. You work for your dad’s company. You don’t have time to travel, anyway why would you when you live in a city like Amsterdam. Your lips form themselves into a smile and I know that you will never be able to make me feel anything.
“Let’s go” you say and I say “okay, where do you live” and you don’t live far from here so we walk and you take my hand and I let you because I can’t feel it anyway.
You have a typical boy apartment. You pour me a vodka while out of your mouth pour streams of drunken philosophy. I could leave, get a taxi, but I don’t. You place yourself next to me on the couch. Your hands seem to have acquired a life of their own. Pushy, you are. You rub my thigh, pull my shoulders towards you. I let it happen; I’m somewhere else, somewhere far away from you, from myself. You press your lips on mine, too hard, like a teenager overwhelmed by their own desire. The muscles in my face contract as I wonder if I can still pretend you’re someone else.
As you unbutton my top, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes are empty. Black holes, floating in alcohol-infused pinkish white. You misinterpret my sigh as a sign of longing. But I long not for you; I long to be anywhere but here. For something to happen. For someone to sweep me off my feet. Somehow. Anyhow...
I’m in your bed now and you’ve climbed on top of me. I can’t look at you. I am about to laugh, cry and throw up, all at the same time. You turn my head towards you and look at me. You look me straight in the eyes. You must see the disappointment and anger and disgust, I think. You must see through this empty facade. But you have that glazed look of love and tenderness in your eyes. “You’re so beautiful darling”, you say, and kiss my forehead.
I spit in your face.
I fucking spit. In your fucking face.
You don’t do anything. You are confused. You open your mouth to say something, but before I know it, my nails claw themselves into your cheek; my knees jump up and hit you in the stomach. You roll off me, instinctively covering your face with your arms. I push you until you fall off the bed and the back of your skull hits the nightstand hard. You lay on the floor; helpless, naked, only slightly conscious. I light a cigarette. I usually don’t smoke. I usually don’t use my cigarette to burn little holes into an unconscious man’s body, but the sizzling sound it makes is infatuating. The pain wakes you up. “What the fuck” you say and try to get up but you’re still so weak and I have wrapped my legs around you, holding your arms tightly to the floor with my right hand. The look of despair on your face is revolting. “I’m sorry”, I say, “I just needed something more”. I put the cigarette in my mouth and carefully press my fingers on your chest, slowly adding pressure until my nails form little red moon shapes in your skin. As my hand pulls down towards your stomach, little strips of flesh curl up under my nails. I laugh hard until tears roll down my face. As soon as the first salty drop lands onto your open wound, you scream louder and louder and louder and louder and louder.
I fucking spit. In your fucking face.
You don’t do anything. You are confused. You open your mouth to say something, but before I know it, my nails claw themselves into your cheek; my knees jump up and hit you in the stomach. You roll off me, instinctively covering your face with your arms. I push you until you fall off the bed and the back of your skull hits the nightstand hard. You lay on the floor; helpless, naked, only slightly conscious. I light a cigarette. I usually don’t smoke. I usually don’t use my cigarette to burn little holes into an unconscious man’s body, but the sizzling sound it makes is infatuating. The pain wakes you up. “What the fuck” you say and try to get up but you’re still so weak and I have wrapped my legs around you, holding your arms tightly to the floor with my right hand. The look of despair on your face is revolting. “I’m sorry”, I say, “I just needed something more”. I put the cigarette in my mouth and carefully press my fingers on your chest, slowly adding pressure until my nails form little red moon shapes in your skin. As my hand pulls down towards your stomach, little strips of flesh curl up under my nails. I laugh hard until tears roll down my face. As soon as the first salty drop lands onto your open wound, you scream louder and louder and louder and louder and louder.
I open my eyes. It’s light outside. My phone rings. Your bed is hard. You are curled up against me like a puppy. “Good morning princess”, you say. “Wow, you totally passed out last night. Did you sleep well?” My stomach makes a pirouette and I taste beer and vodka. “What the fuck”, I mumble, “Did I, did we, what the fuck?” I swallow hard in an attempt to keep last night’s fluids inside and jump out of bed. I need to get out of here. My body is covered in a suit of goose bumps as I throw my sweater on and frantically search for my tights. I can’t find them. Fuck it. I strap my boots onto my bare feet, hope my coat will cover my pink and yellow polka dotted bum, run off the stairs and pray for tram 16 to come soon.
